The Malazan Empire, page 831
‘Banished,’ said Twilight, her tone flat. ‘I have no brother.’
‘We need a king!’ wailed Skwish, pulling at her hair.
‘We do not!’
The two witches froze, frightened by her ferocity, shocked by her words.
Yan Tovis drew a deep breath—there was no hiding the tremble in her hands, the extremity of her fury. ‘I am not blind to the sea,’ she said. ‘No—listen to me, both of you! Be silent and just listen! The water is indeed rising. That fact is undeniable. The shore drowns—even as half the prophecies proclaim. I am not so foolish as to ignore the wisdom of the ancient seers. The Shake are in trouble. It falls to us, to me, to you, to find a way through. For our people. Our feuding must end—but if you cannot set aside all that has happened, and do it now, then you leave me no choice but to banish you both.’ Even as she uttered the word ‘banish’ she saw—with no little satisfaction—that both witches had heard something different, something far more savage and final.
Skwish licked her withered lips, and then seemed to sag against the hut’s wall. ‘We muss flee th’shore, Queen.’
‘I know.’
‘We muss leave. Pu’a’call out t’the island, gather all the Shake. We muss an’ again we muss begin our last journey.’
‘As prophesized,’ whispered Pully. ‘Our lass journey.’
‘Yes. Now the villagers are burying the bodies—they need you to speak the closing prayers. And then I shall see to the ships—I will go myself back out to Third Maiden Isle—we need to arrange an evacuation.’
‘Of the Shake only y’mean!’
‘No, Pully. That damned island is going to be inundated. We take everyone with us.’
‘Scummy prizzners!’
‘Murderers, slackers, dirt-spitters, hole-plungers!’
Yan Tovis glared at the two hags. ‘Nonetheless.’
Neither one could hold her gaze, and after a moment Skwish started edging towards the doorway. ‘Prayers an’ yes, prayers. Fra th’dead coven, fra all th’Shake an’ th’shore.’
Once Skwish had darted out of sight, Pully sketched a ghastly curtsy and then hastened after her sister.
Alone once more, Yan Tovis collapsed down into the saddle-stool that passed for her throne. She so wanted to weep. In frustration, in outrage and in anguish. No, she wanted to weep for herself. The loss of a brother—again—again.
Oh. Damn you, Yedan.
Even more distressing, she thought she understood his motivations. In one blood-drenched night, the Watch had obliterated a dozen deadly conspiracies, each one intended to bring her down. How could she hate him for that?
But I can. For you no longer stand at my side, brother. Now, when the Shore drowns. Now, when I need you most.
Well, it served no one for the Queen to weep. True twilight was not a time for pity, after all. Regrets, perhaps, but not pity.
And if all the ancient prophecies were true?
Then her Shake, broken, decimated and lost, were destined to change the world.
And I must lead them. Flanked by two treacherous witches. I must lead my people—away from the shore.
With the arrival of darkness, two dragons lifted into the night sky, one bone-white, the other seeming to blaze with some unquenchable fire beneath its gilt scales. They circled once round the scatter of flickering hearths that marked the Imass encampment, and then winged eastward.
In their wake a man stood on a hill, watching until they were lost to his sight. After a time a second figure joined him.
If they wept the darkness held that truth close to its heart.
From somewhere in the hills an emlava coughed in triumph, announcing to the world that it had made a kill. Hot blood soaked the ground, eyes glazed over, and something that had lived free lived no more.
Chapter Three
On this the last day the tyrant told the truth
His child who had walked from the dark world
Now rose as a banner before his father’s walls
And flames mocked like celebrants from every window
A thousand thousand handfuls of ash upon the scene
It is said that blood holds neither memory nor loyalty
On this the last day the tyrant thus beheld a truth
The son was born in a dark room to womanly cries
And walked a dark keep along halls echoing pain
Only to flee on a moonless night beneath the cowl
Of his master’s weighted fist and ravaging face
The beget proved to all that a shadow stretches far
Only to march back to its dire maker ever deepening
Its matching desire and this truth is plain as it is blind
Tyrants and saints alike must fall to the ground
In their last breaths taken in turn by the shadow
Of their final repose where truth holds them fast
On a bed of stone.
THE SUN WALKS FAR
RESTLO FARAN
‘Your kisses make my lips numb.’
‘It’s the cloves,’ Shurq Elalle replied, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
‘Got a toothache?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Scanning the clothing littering the floor, she spied her leggings and reached over to collect them. ‘You marching soon?’
‘We are? I suppose so. The Adjunct’s not one to let us know her plans.’
‘Commander’s privilege.’ She rose to tug the leggings up, frowning as she wriggled—was she getting fat? Was that even possible?
‘Now there’s a sweet dance. I’m of a mind to just lean forward here and—’
‘I wouldn’t do that, love.’
‘Why not?’
You’ll get yourself a numb face. ‘Ah, a woman needs her secrets.’ Well, this one does, at least.
‘I’m also of a mind to stay right here,’ the Malazan said.
Leaning far over to lace up her boots, Shurq scowled. ‘It’s not even midnight, Captain. I wasn’t planning on a quiet evening at home.’
‘You’re insatiable. Why, if I was half the man I’d like to be . . .’
She smiled. It was hard being annoyed with this one. She’d even grown used to that broad waxed moustache beneath his misshapen nose. But he was right about her in ways even he couldn’t imagine. Insatiable indeed. She tugged on the deerhide jerkin and tightened the straps beneath her breasts.
‘Careful, you don’t want to constrict your breathing, Shurq. Hood knows, the fashions hereabouts all seem designed to emasculate women—would that be the right word? Emasculate? Everything seems designed to imprison you, your spirit, as if a woman’s freedom was some kind of threat.’
‘All self-imposed, sweetie,’ she replied, clasping her weapon belt and then collecting her cape from where it lay in a heap on the floor. She shook it out. ‘Take ten women, all best friends. Watch one get married. Before you know it she’s top of the pile, sitting smug and superior on her marital throne. And before long every woman in that gaggle’s on the hunt for a husband.’ She swung the cape behind her and fastened the clasps at her shoulders. ‘And Queen Perfect Bitch sits up there nodding her approval.’
‘History? My my. Anyway, that doesn’t last.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sure. It’s sweet blossoms until her husband runs off with one of those best friends.’
She snorted and then cursed. ‘Damn you, I told you not to make me laugh.’
‘Nothing will crack the perfection of your face, Shurq Elalle.’
‘You know what they say—age stalks us all, Ruthan Gudd.’
‘Some old hag hunting you down? No sign of that.’
She made her way to the door. ‘You’re lovely, Ruthan, even when you’re full of crap. My point was, most women don’t like each other. Not really, not in the general sense. If one ends up wearing chains, she’ll paint them gold and exhaust herself scheming to see chains on every other woman. It’s our innate nasty streak. Lock up when you leave.’
‘As I said—I intend staying the night.’
Something in his tone made her turn round. Her immediate reaction was to simply kick him out, if only to emphasize the fact that he was a guest, not an Errant-damned member of the household. But she’d heard a whisper of iron beneath the man’s words. ‘Problems in the Malazan compound, Captain?’
‘There’s an adept in the marines . . .’
‘Adept at what? Should you introduce him to me?’
His gaze flicked away, and he slowly edged up in the bed to rest his back against the headboard. ‘Our version of a caster of the Tiles. Anyway, the Adjunct has ordered a . . . a casting. Tonight. Starting about now.’
‘And?’
The man shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m just superstitious, but the idea’s given me a state of the nerves.’
No wonder you were so energetic. ‘And you want to stay as far away as possible.’
‘Aye.’
‘All right, Ruthan. I should be back before dawn, I hope. We can breakfast together.’
‘Thanks, Shurq. Oh, have fun and don’t wear yourself out.’
Little chance of that, love. ‘Get your rest,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Come the morning you’ll need it.’
Always give them something before leaving. Something to feed anticipation, since anticipation so well served to blind a man to certain obvious discrepancies in, uh, appetite. She descended the stairs. Cloves. Ridiculous. Another visit to Selush was required. Shurq Elalle’s present level of maintenance was proving increasingly complicated, not to mention egregiously expensive.
Stepping outside, she was startled as a huge figure loomed out from the shadows of an alcove. ‘Ublala! Shades of the Empty Throne, you startled me. What are you doing here?’
‘Who is he?’ the giant demanded. ‘I’ll kill him for you if you like.’
‘No, I don’t like. Have you been following me around again? Listen, I’ve explained all this before, haven’t I?’
Ublala Pung’s gaze dropped to his feet. He mumbled something inaudible.
‘What?’
‘Yes. I said “yes”, Captain. Oh, I want to run away!’
‘I thought Tehol had you inducted into the Palace Guard,’ she said, hoping to distract him.
‘I don’t like polishing boots.’
‘Ublala, you only have to do that once every few days—or you can hire someone—’
‘Not my boots. Everyone else’s.’
‘The other guards’?’
He nodded glumly.
‘Ublala, walk with me—I will buy you a drink. Or three.’ They set off up the street towards the canal bridge. ‘Listen, those guards are just taking advantage of your kindness. You don’t have to polish their boots.’
‘I don’t?’
‘No. You’re a guardsman. If Tehol knew about it . . . well, you should probably tell your comrades in the Guard that you’re going to have a word with your best friend, the King.’
‘He is my best friend, isn’t he? He gave me chicken.’
They crossed the bridge, waving at swarming sludge flies, and made their way on to an avenue flanking one of the night markets. More than the usual number of Malazan soldiers wandering about, she noted. ‘Exactly. Chicken. And a man like Tehol won’t share chicken with just anyone, will he?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘No no, Ublala, trust me on this. You’ve got friends in high places. The King, the Chancellor, the Ceda, the Queen, the King’s Sword. Any one of them would be delighted to share chicken with you, and you can bet they wouldn’t be so generous with any of your fellow guards.’
‘So I don’t have to polish boots?’
‘Just your own, or you can hire someone to do that.’
‘What about stitching tears in their uniforms? Sharpening their knives and swords? And what about washing their underclothes—’
‘Stop! None of that—and now especially I want you to promise to talk to your friends. Any one of them. Tehol, Bugg, Brys, Janath. Will you do that for me? Will you tell them what the other guards are making you do?’
‘All right.’
‘Good, those bastard comrades of yours in the Guard are in for some serious trouble. Now, here’s a suitable bar—they use benches instead of chairs, so you won’t be getting stuck like last time.’
‘Good. I’m thirsty. You’re a good friend, Shurq. I want to sex you.’
‘How sweet. But just so you understand, lots of men sex me and you can’t let that bother you, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘Ublala—’
‘Yes, all right, I promise.’
Kisswhere sat slumped in the saddle as the troop rode at a slow trot towards the city of Letheras. She would not glance across to her sister, Sinter, lest the guilt she was feeling simply overwhelm her, a clawing, stabbing clutch at her soul, dragging it into oblivion.
She’d known all along Sinter would follow her anywhere, and when the recruiter train rolled into their village in the jungles of Dal Hon, well, it had been just one more test of that secret conviction. The worst of it was, joining the marines had been little more than a damned whim. Spurred by a bit of a local mess, the spiralling inward of suspicions that would find at its heart none other than Kisswhere herself—the cursed ‘other’ woman who dwelt like a smiling shadow unseen on the edge of a family—oh, she could have weathered the scandal, with just one more toss of her head and a few careless gestures. It wasn’t that she’d loved the man—all the forest spirits well knew that an adulterous man wasn’t worth a woman’s love, for he lived only for himself and would make no sacrifice in the name of his wife’s honour, nor that of their children. No, her motives had been rather less romantic.
Boredom proved a cruel shepherd—the switch never stopped snapping. A hunger for the forbidden added yet another dark shade to the cast of her impulses. She’d known all along that there would come a time when they’d drive her from the village, when she’d be outcast for the rest of her life. Such banishment was no longer a death sentence—the vast world beyond the jungle now opened a multitude of escape routes. The Malazan Empire was vast, holding millions of citizens on three continents. Yes, she knew she would have no difficulty vanishing within that blessed anonymity. And besides, she knew she’d always have company. Sinter—so capable, so practical—was the perfect companion for all her adventures. And oh, the White Jackal well knew, her sister was a beauty and together they’d never have to fear an absence of male company.
The recruiters seemed to offer a quick escape, fortuitous in its timing, and were happy to pay all travel expenses. So she’d grasped hold of the hyena’s tail.
And sure enough, sister Sinter was quick to follow.
It should have ended there. But Badan Gruk was whipped into the rushing current of their wake. The fool had fallen for Sinter.
If she’d bothered putting any thought behind her decisions, she would have comprehended the terrible disaster she had dragged them all into. The Malazan marines demanded a service of ten years, and Kisswhere had simply smiled and shrugged and then had signed on for the long count, telling herself that, as soon as she tired of the game, she’d just desert the ranks and, once more, vanish into anonymity.
Alas, Sinter’s nature was a far tighter weave. What she took inside she kept, and a vow once made was held to, right down to her dying breath.
It did not take long for Kisswhere to realize the mistake she’d made. She couldn’t very well run off and abandon her sister, who’d then gone and showed enough of her talents to be made a sergeant. And although Kisswhere was more or less indifferent to Badan Gruk’s fate—the man so wretchedly ill cast as a soldier, still more so as a squad sergeant—it had become clear to her that Sinter had tightened some knots between them. Just as Sinter had followed Kisswhere, so Badan Gruk had followed Sinter. But the grisly yoke of responsibility proved not at the core of the ties between Sinter and Badan Gruk. There was something else going on. Did her sister in fact love the fool? Maybe.
Life had been so much easier back in the village, despite all the sneaking round and frantic hip-locking in the bushes up from the river—at least then Kisswhere was on her own, and no matter what happened to her, her sister would have been free of it. And safe.
Could she take it all back . . .
This jaunt among the marines was likely to kill them all. It had stopped being fun long ago. The horrid voyage on those foul transports, all the way to Seven Cities. The march. Y’Ghatan. More sea voyages. Malaz City. The coastal invasion on this continent—the night on the river—chains, darkness, rotting cells and no food—
No, Kisswhere could not look across at Sinter, and so witness her broken state. Nor could she meet Badan Gruk’s tortured eyes, all that raw grief and anguish.
She wished she had died in that cell.
She wished they had taken the Adjunct’s offer of discharge once the outlawing was official. But Sinter would have none of that. Of course not.
They were riding in darkness, but Kisswhere sensed when her sister suddenly pulled up. Soldiers immediately behind them veered aside to avoid the horses colliding. Grunts, curses, and then Badan Gruk’s worried voice. ‘Sinter? What’s wrong?’
Sinter twisted in her saddle. ‘Is Nep with us? Nep Furrow?’
‘No,’ Badan replied.
Kisswhere saw real fear sizzle awake in her sister, and her own heart started pounding in answer. Sinter had sensitivities—
‘In the city! We need to hurry—’
‘Wait,’ croaked Kisswhere. ‘Sinter, please—if there’s trouble there, let them handle it—’
‘No—we have to ride!’
And suddenly she drove heels into her horse’s flanks and the beast lunged forward. A moment later and everyone was following, Kisswhere in their company. Her head spun—she thought she might well be flung from her mount—too weak, too weary—
But her sister. Sinter. Her damned sister, she was a marine, now. She was one of the Adjunct’s very own—and though that bitch had no idea, it was soldiers like Sinter—the quiet ones, the insanely loyal ones—who were the iron spine of the Bonehunters.
